


The Soup Was Disgusting

by TCRegan



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:00:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke finds himself thinking about his dear friend during one of his mother's matchmaking dinners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soup Was Disgusting

Hawke stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, ducking his head sheepishly when his mother glared at him from across the table. Talisa du Carrac was just so… boring, though. Her high pitched tone was the only thing keeping him from faceplanting directly into his soup. Soup. What course was that? Third? Out of nine? Maker, he wasn't going to fit into his armor after this. Varric would have a field day. Talisa looked at him expectantly.

"Hm?" he asked, looking around. "I'm sorry; I was enthralled by the soup. It's just so… soupy."

"Isn't it?" Talisa squealed and Hawke winced. Her Orlesian accent was anything but seductive with that tonal pitch. "Francisco is just the best chef. He always outdoes himself."

She was off again, talking about Maker only knew what and Hawke allowed his eyes to glaze over. The meal wasn't bad exactly, but the stew at the Hanged Man was preferable, even if he wasn't able to always identify the meat. Thinking of the Hanged Man made him wistful for his friends. They were likely there, gathered around Varric's table, playing diamondback, drinking and laughing at his misfortune. Meanwhile, he was stuck here, fending off a migraine.

"Isn't that just hilarious?" Talisa asked with a snort.

Hawke offered a weak chuckle. "Side-splitting."

His mother kicked him sharply in the shin and Hawke grimaced. Talisa must have taken it for a grin because she continued to prattle and Maker did that woman ever take a breath? She reminded him a bit of Anders when he ranted. The biggest difference of course was that when Anders went off, his arguments were coherent and well-delivered. Talisa was just a cackling fool, where Anders' voice was very soothing, his west Fereldan accent quite pleasant to listen to.

He found himself thinking more closely about his friend, the way his eyes sparkled when Hawke agreed with him, or how his brow knit in concentration as Hawke rebutted a point. His ink-stained fingertips as he scribbled down another piece of his manifesto. The way the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly when he was upset about something. His soft expression of quiet pain when he believed no one else was looking. His hands, so warm and gentle as he healed one of Hawke's many wounds. His amused but concerned chiding tone when he warned Hawke about the dangers of taking a dagger to the back instead of dodging…

He stood up. "Excuse me, my dear. I should visit the little boys' room before the next course," he said, as Talisa paused finally to take a sip of wine. He left quickly, ignoring the looks from around the table.

Once away from the pretentiousness the du Carrac dining room had to offer, Hawke found himself splashing cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Anders. He'd never thought about the man that way before. And why should he? Anders never gave any indication that he felt anything more for Hawke than just warm friendship. Hadn't he?

_You've been a good friend to me. Better than I deserve._

Soft voice, gentle touch, shy smile. Oh, Maker, he really was blind, wasn't he? Anders spent more time with him than anyone else. They talked late into the night, almost every night. Anders had all but moved in, even Varric had made a passing comment that Hawke simply hand-waved away. Maker's breath, why hadn't he seen it before? And now he was stuck at a stupid dinner being bored to tears by someone who was more concerned with whether her shoes matched her eyes rather than with anything of substance. He looked out the window, rain starting to mist. It was three stories down, but a thick banner hung from the window. That would provide enough traction, he hoped.

He pushed open the pane of glass, steeled himself, and climbed out. The stone was slick with the oncoming rain, which started to fall faster now. Had he been in his traveling boots and not these soft leather things, it would have been much less slick. With some effort, muscles flexing, he began to shimmy down the side of the estate. Ahead, lightning flashed followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder. The rain began to pour. Fifteen feet from the ground, his grip didn't fail, but the fabric did. It started to rip.

"Bloody flames," he muttered, closing his eyes in concentration.

The fabric tore away and stone met stone as he called upon his warrior training. Every muscle hardened, and the ground cracked slightly where he landed, the ostentatious colors of the du Carrac family crest covering him like a thin blanket. He lay there a moment, stunned and soaked, but uninjured. Shoving the banner aside, he got gingerly to his feet, shaking out his limbs. He'd feel the impact tomorrow, but for now he had other things on his mind. The streets were clear, citizens of Kirkwall both rich and poor already inside, away from the rain. Hawke raced through Hightown, sliding down banisters, jumping steps as he sped toward the Hanged Man.

As he pushed open the door, the chatter died down, heads turning in his direction. A few people recognized him, even dressed as he was in his finery and soaked to the skin. He offered a weak wave in response to their greetings and sloshed up the stairs right into Varric's suite. Looking quickly from surprised face to surprised face, he stopped on the one he wanted.

"Anders."

"Hawke?" Anders asked, his surprise turning to concern. He dropped his cards and got to his feet, skirting around the table to approach him. "What is it?"

He couldn't do this, not here in front of everyone. "I need to… to talk to you. Out there. In private."

Anders brow furrowed, and it was all Hawke could do not to drag him bodily out. He nodded, giving the others a half-wave as he allowed Hawke to lead him into the thankfully empty hallway. Varric's door shut, and Anders looked at him expectantly.

"It's just… I…" Hawke tried.

"Hawke, you're soaked. Are you all right?"

"Sod it," Hawke grunted, shoving Anders back against the wall.

He caught a glimpse of bewilderment before he pressed his lips to Anders. There was a moment of panic when he thought Anders might push him away, and it fled as Anders returned the kiss. Those warm hands he remembered came up to grip his biceps, pressing the wet linen to his chilled skin. He started to pull back, but Anders held him in place, tilting his head, and Hawke groaned. Anders slipped his tongue inside and Hawke teased back, tentative, testing. A hand came up to rest cautiously in Hawke's hair, then fingers twisted in the wet strands. Despite the cold, Hawke felt heat pooling in his groin. He wanted Anders. No one but him.

When he pulled back again, Anders allowed it. Hawke watched nervously as Anders opened his eyes, half-lidded and shining. Hawke waited, willing himself not to kiss him again just yet.

"Was that… what you wanted to talk about?" Anders asked carefully.

"Yes."

"I see."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Anders let out a breathy laugh. "And you're soaked. Did you run all the way here from Lord du Carrac's estate?"

"The soup was disgusting."

"Oh, Hawke."

"Come home with me."

Anders leaned forward, kissing him softly. Hawke most certainly did not whine when he pulled away. "It's still pouring. I was planning on staying the night here. Stay with me."

"Yes." He didn't even have to think about it. "Forever."

Anders smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Forever?"

"I love you."

The confession surprised them both. Anders looked stunned, mouth half-open to quip, but he couldn't seem to find any words. Hawke kissed him again, then stepped back to cup his face. He pressed his forehead against Anders'. 

Anders gripped Hawke's wrists tightly, eyes closing. "Say it again," he whispered.

"I love you," Hawke said again.

"I love you," Anders said, almost as if he were repeating it, rather than saying it back. 

Hawke stepped back quickly, turning his head into the crook of his elbow and sneezed twice. Anders tutted, taking his hand, leading him down the hall.

"A hot bath and a warm bed."

"And you," Hawke added.

Anders smiled. "For as long as you want me."


End file.
